Mum bent to pick one as they went. She twirled the white and yellow posy in her fingers. “Is the book you were reading interesting?”
Faith, she’d noticed.
“It’s philosophy.” Well, it was. In a sense.
“What is it called?”
“Um…” Violet felt her face heat, but the title certainly wasn’t a giveaway. “Aristotle’s Master-piece.”
Stepping onto the bridge, her mother threw her an inscrutable look. “And is it?”
Her heart stuttered. “Is it what?”
“A masterpiece.”
“Oh.” Halfway across the bridge, Violet stopped and turned to the rail. She focused out over the river. “It’s Aristotle, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard me jabber enough about him.” She reached into her mother’s basket and broke off a bit of bread, tossing it out to the lone swan nearby. “I don’t expect you’d find it very interesting.”
“You might be surprised.”
Violet wondered what her mother meant, but she didn’t want to ask. She had a feeling she was better off not knowing.
More swans glided near, and her mother tossed a few crumbs. “You miss him, don’t you?”
Him. Mum had to mean Ford. But Violet had never admitted to any regard for him, so how could Mum know?
“Miss whom?” she asked.
“Lord Lakefield, of course. Don’t be coy, Violet. For weeks you saw him every day, but now that Jewel is gone, you have no excuse to visit. I know you’re fond of him.”
“He’s very nice,” Violet said carefully.
“You don’t allow a gentleman to kiss you just because he’s nice.”
Violet’s jaw dropped open. She closed it, along with her eyes, then opened them and turned to her mother. “Wherever did you get the idea he kissed me?”
“One of your sisters.” Mum held up a hand. “No, I won’t tell you which one, because it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me! It was Rose, wasn’t it?”
“I won’t be saying.”
Violet was more frustrated than embarrassed by Mum’s revelation. She knew her mother must have kissed her father before they were married—how else could they have been caught in a ‘compromising position’?
But that was beside the point. “I’m not marrying him, Mum.”
Below them, the swans squawked, and Mum broke off more bread. “Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, he hasn’t asked me. And for another, I wouldn’t agree if he did.”
“Can you explain why?”
“Why?” To avoid meeting her mother’s eyes, Violet took a hunk of bread and faced the graceful white birds. “Why should I? With or without my spectacles, I’m not blind. I know I’m no beauty. If he asked for my hand, it would only be to get my ten thousand pounds—heaven knows he needs it, as Rose has pointed out countless times. And I won’t marry for less than true love, Mum. I…I suspect marriage isn’t all it’s purported to be, anyway.”
She wished she could still believe that with the certainty she once had. But she wasn’t quite so sure any longer, not since attending the ball. Now, late at night, she lay in her four-poster bed alone, wishing to feel that feeling again. That feeling of being wanted—cherished, body and soul—that she’d felt in that candlelit piazza.
Mum threw the last of her crumbs to the swans. “I see.”
Violet didn’t care for her mother’s tone. Tossing the rest of her own crumbs, she turned to face her. “You’re not going to try to match me up with him, are you? Because—”
“Goodness, no! I want you to be happy, Violet. Married or not—whatever makes you happy.”
Mum sounded sincere. But as they strolled hand-in-hand back to the house, Violet couldn’t help but wonder.
THIRTY-NINE
CHRYSTABEL LOVED the nighttimes.
In the quiet of the master chamber, her dear Joseph could always hear her. It didn’t quite make sense, which was why she sometimes teasingly accused him of selective listening. But he said it had to do with competing sounds. That during the daytime, there were noises, always noises: servants going about their work, animals in the fields, birds in the skies, dishes and silverware at mealtimes, and the children all talking at once. With more than one sound, he couldn’t distinguish any of them.
But within the thick, solid walls of their room, the nighttimes were blessedly quiet. And he also declared that her voice was the one he could hear most easily, especially when there were no competing sounds. The perfect pitch.
That did make sense to her. Because they’d always, always been perfect together.
But now he had nodded off, though she’d expressly asked him not to. She closed the door behind her with a smart thump that startled him awake. “I told you to wait up.”
He yawned and rolled over. “Has Violet fallen asleep yet?”
“Yes. Finally.” She deposited a leather-bound book on the counterpane. “I got it.”
“What?” He rubbed his face, then struggled up onto his elbows to see better. “What is this all about?”
She untied the sash around her waist. “Aristotle’s Master-piece,” she said in a deceptively casual tone.
“Holy Hades. The marriage manual?” He bolted upright. “Where on earth would Violet get such a thing?”
“Language, Joseph! No wonder Rowan has learned such habits.” Shrugging out of her dressing gown, Chrystabel straightened her chemise, then went to work on unpinning her hair. “And I’ve no idea where Violet got the book. But I mean to give it back to her before she realizes it’s missing—we’ve this night only to peruse the material and ensure it’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” He cast the ordinary-looking tome a thunderous glare. “How could it possibly be—”
“Ah, Joseph, don’t be so old-fashioned. I know the book is supposed to be scandalous, but Violet is old enough to learn the facts—and if half of what’s said about the Master-piece is true, it will explain things much better than we could ever bring ourselves to do.”
Chrystabel saw no need to mention their younger daughters were reading it as well. Her beloved Joseph wasn’t always as open-minded
